


Affection

by AnnieAmazing, Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieAmazing/pseuds/AnnieAmazing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Affection, noun: a tender feeling toward another; synonyms and related words: attachment, attraction, devotion, fondness, love, sentiment. It all narrows down to one simple fact: John loves Sherlock</p><p>Affection is a fluffy Johnlock fic, written in close collaboration with AnnieAmazing</p><p>Chapter three: Here comes the fluffy smut ... :) - Now Complete</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Affection is a fluffy Johnlock fic, written in close collaboration with AnnieAmazing. We started writing this almost a year ago, but due to real life and all it sometimes entails, Affection has never been completed and got pushed back to the back of our minds.
> 
> Of course, it was never entirely forgotten, and now we decided to share it with you. Annie will be publishing this story under her name AnnieAmazing. Although the writing process happened in close cooperation, we edited the story independently, and so our final versions might well be very different :)
> 
> Here comes the first chapter ... Enjoy reading!

John was busy.

He was pottering about in the kitchen, preparing tea and breakfast, unconsciously humming a melody whilst doing so. Sherlock didn't recognise it, but then again, he wasn't really listening.

Sherlock was busy too.

He was thinking, slumped down in his armchair, elbows resting on the armrests on either side of his body, fingers steepled under his chin.He was deep in the process of deleting unnecessary data and that was why Sherlock didn't reward John with so much as a look when he entered the sitting room and droppaplate full of toast, scrambled eggs, baked beans and sausages on the small coffee table next to Sherlock, a cup of tea following suit.

'Sherlock,' John said, but he was not rewarded with so much as an answer. He sighed and, stepping up closer to his friend, reached out to pull Sherlock's right hand away from his face, knowing that this brief touch would shake him out of his trance. Sherlock shook his head slightly, blinking at John in confusion and more than a hint of disgruntlement.

'I'm thinking, John,' he growled, 'and therefore far from delighted about your crude interruption. I'd very much appreciate it if you _hurriedly_ told me what you want and then let me be before I'm forced to rely on physically harming you.

'Despite Sherlock's threats, John smiled. 'Sherlock, I made you a proper English breakfast, and _I'd_ very much appreciate seeing you _hurriedly_ eat it.' For the next statement John chose to revert to his calm, concerned doctor-voice, 'You haven't eaten in three days, except for two biscuits and a piece of chocolate.'

Sherlock blinked once again, his gaze shifting from John's face to the plate and the cuppa on the coffee table and back.

'Not hungry,' he exclaimed and freed his wrist from John's grasp.

John took a calming breath. 'Sherlock,' he said, the sudden sharp tone of voice contradicting his calm demeanour. 'You _will_ eat this, and if I have to force-feed you, God help me, I will.'

Sherlock snorted. 'I'd like to see you try,' he challenged and narrowed his eyes at John - _Interesting!_ \- He saw something flickering in John's eyes, something wild, determined and yet soft. But in the blink of an eye it was gone again, gone before Sherlock had a chance to deduce what it was, and - more importantly yet - what it _meant._

John stood his ground, flexing his shoulders and craning his chin upwards, and suddenly he seemed a lot taller than he really was, the way he glared down at Sherlock with demanding eyes.

'Eat,' he growled at him, pointing at the food, and clenched his jaw tightly.

For some reason, John's posture had a wave of respect, with just the smallest amount of fear added to it, rushing through Sherlock's body, tingling at his fingertips and toes, creeping up and back down his spine, and finally pooling in the pit of his stomach. Despite being intrigued by the sensation, somewhat dulled by the fact that he nevertheless felt the itch to contradict his flatmate, he swallowed thickly and bowed his head down in an obedient fashion.

'Yes, Captain,' he muttered and picked up the plate from the coffee table. He took the fork that was delivered with the food in hand and began to eat. It tasted ... _exceptionally_ good. Unconsciously, he made a humming sound of appreciation in the back of his throat and John smiled, unseen by Sherlock.

Although Sherlock was eating now, John did entirely trust this show of obedience and remained standing beside his friend in his soldier stance, legs slightly spread, hands clasped behind his back, chin craned upward. He was closely watching Sherlock.

When Sherlock was half-way through the plate and had just swallowed the last bite of toast and beans, John held out his hand in anticipation. Sure enough, Sherlock handed the plate over and slumped back in his chair, a little content sigh escaping him.

_Stuffed, then. Good -_ John thought and smiled to himself. 'Thank you,' he said aloud, the smile still lingering on his lips.

Sherlock shot him a questioning look. 'Whatever for?' he asked, but John, rather annoyingly, just smirked.

'Well, you ate half of the food I made you. That's a huge improvement to the last couple of times. I'm proud of you, Sherlock, really, I am,' John answered and turned around to take the remainders of Sherlock's breakfast back into the kitchen. Sherlock just blinked stupidly at his friend's retreating form, not understanding what John liked so much about seeing him indulge in something as mundane and dull as _eating._

'Why are you doing this, John?' he enquired when his friend returned to the living room.

John blinked at him in confusion. 'Sorry, what are you talking about?' He stopped in his tracks, 'The ... the feeding-thing?'

Sherlock nodded curtly and John sat down opposite him, thinking a moment about how to answer this enquiry.

'I don't know. Maybe it's some sort of kink I've developed. _'Feeding Sherlock to a healthy weight'_ \- sounds interesting, doesn't it?'

Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but John minutely shook his head, and again there was this rather smug smile playing around his lips.

'Seriously though, Sherlock! Can't you deduce my intentions? Fairly obvious, aren't they?' he teased.

'You're insulting me for asking a serious question, John?' Sherlock said and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes fixed on his friend. 'I insist you explain your behaviour to me, because I honestly don't understand it. There's no reason whatsoever for you to persuade me to eat.'

John sighed, exasperated. He lifted his hands in defeat and shook his head once again.

'I worry about you, Sherlock, and that a lot. That's the reason why. I'm your doctor, _and_ your friend, I don't want to watch you starve yourself to death. Not as long as I can help it.'

Sherlock blinked. 'Is that so?' he murmured, more to himself, then, addressing John again. 'Same with the sleep, yes? And the _shooting people for me_? And the yelling at -and almost beating up, may I add - Anderson for calling me a - what was it again? A faggot?' A delicate eyebrow rose towards the ceiling.

John nodded, slightly amused. 'Exactly. Not to mention punching the Chief Superintendent square across the face for just so much as insulting you,' he added with a wink. He didn't mention the fact he was constantly cancelling dates for Sherlock too, for fear the detective might decode this information all too well.

Sherlock nodded slowly, on the verge to drifting off into thoughts again. He took a deep breath and focused his eyes on John once more.

'But _why,_ John? Why do you keep worrying about my health, or my dignity, or whatever else there is for you to worry about?'

John shook his head slightly, openly smiling now. ' _Jesus_ , Sherlock,' he said. In a fluid motion he was out of his battered chair and at Sherlock's side, sitting on the armrest, close, and then throwing his left arm around his friend's shoulders and pulling him briefly against his chest.

'You ignorant git. It's what normal people call affection,' he explained and, with a final squeeze of Sherlock's left shoulder, got back up to his feet and headed back into the kitchen.

'Affection,' Sherlock mumbled, rolling the word around in his mouth as if to taste it, feel its weight, measure it. 'Affection,' he repeated. It rung a bell somewhere in the back of his mind.

\- _Affection; noun; a tender feeling toward another; synonyms and related words: attachment, attraction, devotion, fondness, love, sentiment-_

Sherlock blinked in surprise. John was feeding him, making him sleep, dressing his wounds when he got himself injured, and generally took good care of him. John was also shooting evil cabbies and punching people worth less than the dirt below his shoes - all for the sole purpose of protecting Sherlock. And, most importantly, John called it _affection - Really? Affection? That was what normal people do when they like each other? No, that's not exactly what it was ..._

With a jolt Sherlock sat forward, his eyes following John ranging the breakfast things in the kitchen. It was more, _much_ more than that: It all narrowed down to one simple fact: John cared for him, cared so much because, surely, he was in _love_ with him. Sherlock gulped around a lump in his throat - Now, what was he to do about that? No, seriously ... What? ...

With a grin Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin once again. Gone was the slight awkwardness this sudden insight into John had caused, and he cherished the sudden warmth which was flooding him like a benign force, when his now buzzing mind started to connect the dots and to fill in the blanks. He closed his eyes and started to set up plans for a new, promisingly intriguing experiment.

 

 

oOo

 

I.

Sherlock was staring. It was not much of a disturbance at first, but after a minute or two John could feel his scrutiny like a heavy weight against his skin, pressing, burning, making him sweat. He squirmed slightly, uneasiness spreading through his system.

John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He opened them again only to find Sherlock's piercing eyes still fixed on him. Unwavering. Unnerving. Focusing on him with those incredible colour-shifting eyes, a glow of silvery green fairly pinning John to the spot, forcing him to cast down his own eyes.

Sherlock was sitting opposite John, holding one of their delicate China teacups, gracefully balancing it between his long, pale index finger and thumb, blowing over the still scolding contents of it, his plush lips hovering over the amber liquid. The look he gave John over the rim of the cup held something feral. Behind all the posh manners and vocabulary, there was something raw and dangerous, hidden away from the public eye, but laid openly on the floor for John to see. The thought of something raw in Sherlock, waiting to be discovered, sent jolts of electricity down John's spine and straight to his groin. He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in the chair to hide his unease.

'Sherlock,' John started, his voice cracking, and he cleared his throat again. 'It's very impolite to stare,' he continued rather witlessly after a moment and cursed himself only a split second after the words had left his mouth.

'Is it?' Sherlock asked with an amused quirk of one eyebrow. 'I wasn't aware that my looking at you was discomforting. But then the faint blush and the disconcertment evident in your posture are clear signs I shouldn't have missed.'

John did not trust himself to dignify this deduction with a response, and cursing his body for being so obvious, he broke the eye contact again. He needed to rest his gaze on something less disconcerting, less disturbing - less arousing - and settled on the bookshelf left to Sherlock's head.

So Sherlock could unsettle him just by staring, could control him just by fixing his eyes on him? This was unacceptable. It was as unsettling as it was annoying.

John summoned all his will and let his eyes snake back to focus on Sherlock, who was gazing at him unwaveringly still. The deep furrow above his nose was an indicator that he had shifted into his deduction mode. Although this was a realisation holding the power to unsettle John even more, he felt the need to attack.

'What are you doing, Sherlock? What is this about? Stop staring at me, and especially stop deducing me like that. It's bloody annoying.' John shuffled forward in his chair, leaning towards Sherlock, 'Isn't there a case you could rather dissect? Or some dull case notes in need of verification? No message from Lestrade? No cold case needing to be solved? No pressing matters in dire need of your intellect?' God, he was waffling, he knew it, and he saw the responding smirk on Sherlock's lips.

_Damn it, what is this? For fuck's sakes, I'm flustered just because he looks at me? Get a bloody grip, Watson._

Tantalizingly slow Sherlock lowered the cup into its saucer and bent forward to place both items on the floor. The movement brought a shift in the air and some of Sherlock's scent wafted in John's direction. Involuntarily his nostrils flared and he closed his eyes for a moment, but not quick enough, and so he couldn't help noticing the elegant curve of Sherlock's neck and the litheness of his body. Sherlock remained in that position for a second and peered up at him from underneath his eyelashes.

_Interesting - he's affected by my closeness. He can't stand my intense scrutiny, but doesn't flee the situation either. He's determined to plough through it although he's clearly flustered and greatly bothered. It's the uncertainty which gets him, John is a man of clear lines, of black and white, of yes or no. He cannot take unresolved tension or undisclosed desires._

Sherlock blinked at his thoughts and sat back in his chair.

_Now, that is very interesting indeed!_ - _Undisclosed desires? Yes! We might get to the bottom of this quicker than I thought. Undisclosed desires, indeed._ For a second something akin to panic flooded Sherlock's mind when a, quite different, thought hit him _\- His? Or mine?_

 

oOo _  
_

 

II.

John knitted his brows. He felt a feather-light touch at the small of his back, soon subtly morphing into an insistent one, fingers applying more pressure, still slight, but unwavering. He glanced sideways at Sherlock, who was standing very close to him, so close, in fact, that their body heat mingled to a haze of all-enveloping warmth.

Sherlock noticed John's inquisitive stare and nodded at him, curtly but friendly, a small smile lingering on his lips, his eyes twinkling with something John couldn't quite place, before he turned his attention back to Lestrade. The DI was busy pointing out the assumed escape route of the murderer, walking away from them, deeper into the building.

Again there was a light touch on John's back, a slight increase in pressure. He felt Sherlock's hand as clearly as if he was touching his bare skin, felt the texture of his calloused violinist's fingertips burning through the thick fabric of his jacket, through the wool of his jumper and the fine cotton of his button-down shirt, very nearly scorching his skin.

Momentarily, the fingers pressed a tad more insistently into the small of John's back, gently urging him on, and he followed Lestrade into the dark basement of the building. The touch was always there, never breaking contact, never losing impact. He felt it burning itself into his skin and this sensation sent shivers down his spine. Yes, he felt it clearly, but he did not understand.

'Sherlock, why are you touching me?' he whispered, his voice low, not loud enough for Lestrade to overhear.

'Because I want to, John,' Sherlock said matter-of-factly, not bothering to keep his voice down. He turned to look at John, without taking his hand away as if breaking the connection would mean so much more than just that.

John shivered, just slightly, almost unnoticeably. Yet, Sherlock picked up on the tiny motion and filed it away in a folder labelled _John's Reactions to Sentiment._

Finally, John twisted his body away from Sherlock and out of his reach. 'Well, stop it,' he hissed, unable to hide his obvious distress.

_Interesting,_ Sherlock thought with a smile which was hovering somewhere between satisfaction and doubt. So far this experiment had shown that Sherlock's physical closeness could make John feel flustered and that he apparently did not want to be touched by him, yet he claimed to feel affection toward Sherlock and showed obvious signs of pleasure when treated in such a fashion. It was bag of mixed signs, and it confused Sherlock more than he would have openly admitted.

Now, w _hy_ did John not want to be touched by him?

Well, clearly this could have multiple reasons. Whether John just didn't want to be touched in front of other people's inquisitive eyes, or not at all. Presumably, John's affection toward Sherlock was something... less physical, something rather spiritual. Purely platonic, perhaps? Or maybe he had been mistaken, and he was not in love with him at all? Then again, maybe he was, but was in denial?

Sherlock couldn't fathom the reason just now, he decided, and shook his head. There was no use examining John's reactions, he would have to file them away for later use.

A smile flickered across Sherlock's features. Despite this delicious contradiction he was confronted with right now, his friend was usually fairly easy to read. Touch? Sherlock could not reach a final verdict just yet and would have to settle for collecting more data.

What about himself, though? Sherlock couldn't deny he had liked touching John. It had felt warm and familiar, yet novel and agitating. Whereas John's psyche was fairly obvious for him, his body, his privacy remained undiscovered territory, and Sherlock realised with sudden clarity that he felt the strong need to explore it, map all of it, very thoroughly - What did that tell him about himself?

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts when Detective Inspector Lestrade cleared his throat. He flashed the DI one of his fake smiles, indicating he was back on track.

_Yes - Yes, there is a case to solve ..._

_Focus!_

 

 


	2. Clarification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your feedback, alerts etc. :) You really made my day  
> Please check out Annie Amazing's version of this story as well!  
> Enjoy reading ...

It was late already when John all but fell onto the sofa, dropping two plates of Chinese takeaway on the coffee table. They were both tired, worn out by the day, and in silent understanding they had stopped at the Chinese in Baker Street to grab a takeaway on their way home.

Sherlock pulled one of the plates to sit right in front of him, took the fork in his hand and dared to take a bite. He felt John watch him closely and when he turned his gaze to the left, he took in John’s slight, satisfied, _smug_ smile in pure contradiction to the raised eyebrow and questioning gaze he wore.

'What?' he asked eventually, equal parts annoyed and intrigued.

John smirked and turned to tend to his own meal. 'Oh, nothing, Sherlock. Just... lately, whenever I bring you food, you... well, _hum_.'

Sherlock’s appalled look registered and he quickly added, 'Oh don’t worry, it’s not very loud. It’s just... I noticed, is all. Don’t stop on my behalf. Well, I like it, actually.'

Sherlock shot him a look of utter confusion. 'You like it?' he asked, brows raising toward the ceiling.

John just shrugged. 'It suggests you like your food. That’s a good sign, especially for someone with a condition bordering on an eating-disorder.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but got cut off by John, who held up his hand and continued speaking. 'No, Sherlock, don’t give me that look, we both know it’s true. So yes, I like the noises you make when eating, they are sounds of approval.'

'The same way you like seeing me sleep?' Sherlock shot back, annoyed and angry by the fact John thought he had an eating-disorder. He definitely hadn't, he just did not need food as much as ... _ordinary_ people. That was all it was.

John didn’t dignify Sherlock's question with a response. Instead, he dug his fork forcefully into his food, throwing a sideways glance at his friend, watching the sharp lines soften again, the anger slowly leaving the angular features.

'Do you watch me sleep, John?' Sherlock asked then. His voice was calm, even, and betrayed nothing.

John blinked at him in surprise. 'Wh...' he started, but Sherlock interrupted with a shake of his head. 'No, don’t answer that, I know you do, John. I also know you tend to touch me when I sleep,' he said, his tone of voice unusually soft, tender even, and John felt as if this voice had the power to pierce his lungs, all air fading from them.

'What gives you that idea?' he choked out, taken aback.

Sherlock tore his gaze away and fixed it on his plate. 'Unimportant,' he said, 'I know you do and the reddening of your cheeks is evidence enough to tell me I’m right. Now, explain to me, John, why would you touch me when no one, not even I myself, can see, but wouldn’t let _me_ touch you?'

John’s fork fell onto his plate with a clangour. 'You’re unbelievable, Sherlock,' he said, anger making his voice tremble, 'it was one, time, okay? One bloody time, and I only did it because you seemed so goddamn vulnerable, sprawled out on the sofa, for once at peace with the world and yourself. At least, that’s what you looked like. I couldn’t resist, okay? But _Jesus_ \- what makes you think this gives you the right to...'

Sherlock looked at him again, his piercing grey-green eyes boring holes in his heart, and for a moment John lost track of his words. He shook himself out of his stupor and inhaled a deep, calming breath. 'Look, Sherlock, I know that wasn’t... I’ve crossed a boundary, I know. And I’m sorry, okay? But that doesn’t mean it gives you the right to do the same. Especially not in front of Lestrade and the other Yarders, for fuck’s sake!'

Sherlock blinked, then nodded. 'You’re saying I’ve crossed a boundary tonight, too,' he murmured. He fixed his eyes back on his food. 'You don’t want me to touch you, then?'

John inhaled deeply again, his breathing unsteady. 'I ... don’t know. I don’t mind, not really, just... we’re not a couple, okay? Don’t get all... _intimate_ with me, that’s just... so wrong, on so many levels, Sherlock.'

'Then what am I allowed to do, John?' Sherlock asked, confusion edged into every line of his features, embedded in his voice.

'Hell - I don’t know, Sherlock, just don’t... I don’t know. You’re not supposed to hold my hand or put yours on the small of my back just so, in front of everyone, that’s... as far as affection goes, Sherlock, this implies we were more than just friends. But we are not. Okay?'

Sherlock’s head snapped up and turned toward John again. 'Aren’t we?' he asked, serious, but then a lopsided grin changed his face, 'The evidence speaks otherwise.'

John nervously licked his lips and closed his eyes to calm his nerves. 'Then the evidence is wrong, Sherlock, because no, we are _not_ a couple. And I’ll even explain why.'

Sherlock listened carefully, then nodded. 'Go on then,' he said, genuine interest engraved in his voice.

'First off, Sherlock, couples ... well, they go on dates together, and no, eating at Angelo’s does _not_ count as a date. Visiting crime scenes together also doesn’t meet the requirements for a date. Okay. We don’t go on dates together.' John had turned to Sherlock and was using his fingers to count off all that spoke against a possible romantic involvement with his flatmate. 'Secondly, I’m not aware of ever having kissed you, which is another thing couples regularly do, and we, for a fact, do not. Lastly, and most importantly yet, Sherlock - we’re not sleeping together. Couples sleep together. We don’t. Okay. That makes us not-a-couple. We’re friends, colleagues, flatmates, but that’s it.'

Sherlock lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling as if in deep thought. He then took up his favourite thinking pose again and didn’t say a single thing for the next ten minutes. John sighed, when the silence lengthened, and accepting that he would not get an immediate reaction, he continued eating.

When his plate was empty and Sherlock’s food inevitably cold, he got up from the couch and made to carry the plates into the kitchen. Sherlock chose to speak when John was halfway there, and it shocked him so much that he dropped the plates.

'I want to touch you, John. I want you to touch me.'

Calm. Even. Dark. Somehow promising. Oh so tempting. John trembled in anticipation of what was to follow. What did follow, however, was nothing he would have expected.

'Based on the evidence I found you are indeed interested in a physical relationship with me, John, and I suggest you start acting on it. Take me to bed.'

Demanding, rough, detached.

John closed his eyes - _Enough_ \- he thought and balled his hands into tight fists. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat.

'What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean? I am not your bloody experiment, Sherlock. I don't bloody care what evidence you base this laughable demand on, you don’t get to invade my personal space like that. Forget it.'

With that, John almost bolted from the place, up into his room, not even daring to glance back. He locked the door behind him and sank down to the floor, back pressed against the solid wood. In the silence of his own room he covered his ears with his hands and breathed. Just breathed - concentrated - breathed - _in, out, in, out_ \- conscious of his painfully drumming heart and the heat in his cheeks.

It took longer than he hoped, evidence of the turmoil in his mind and heart, but eventually he felt his nerves calm down, and with every slow breath he took and with every moment that passed his breathing became more stable and calmer. He sighed.

John really shouldn’t be surprised by Sherlock’s behaviour. It wasn’t as if he could expect normal deportment from him, anyway, couldn’t expect it at all. He knew that, even granted him a certain amount of eccentric demeanour, but there were boundaries to everything. And right now, John felt used, he felt dirty even, something he did not want to attribute to the feelings he harboured for Sherlock.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? _What_ bloody feelings did he have for him? When he had explained to him what made a couple - the kissing, the touching, the sleeping together - he had felt anger, but also regret and, for a huge part, longing. And then Sherlock had reacted to his unspoken desires, had offered him something. Why hadn’t he been able to take him up on his offer?

 _Because_ , he told himself, _I’m not his bloody experiment_.

Unconsciously John balled his fists again, his anger rekindling and he made the very conscious effort to slowly exhale, to calm down, to steady his nerves, to find his balance once again. He wiped his hands over his face. Jesus, he was tired, he was flustered and more than a little bit unsettled. The faint noises of Sherlock padding around in their living room floated up to where he was sitting, made him lift his head. He could hear him walking from the sofa to their kitchen and back. Then there was silence. John assumed that Sherlock was sitting in the almost dark room now, on the sofa or in his favourite chair, in his customary pose, replaying the scene, analysing it, filing the bits and pieces away. He strained his ears, but nothing but silence was drifting up to him.

With a grunt, John got up and started to undress. He let all his clothes fall in a heap onto the floor, not bothering with putting them on the chair next to his bed as he would normally do. Old habits die hard and John Watson was a tidy man, years of military life had left deep traces. Today, though, he didn’t even bother with his nightly ablutions and went to bed as he was.

A bit later he made out the distinct sounds of Sherlock walking around again, apparently as restless as he was. John tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find sleep or comfort, as the scene in their living room replayed in an endless loop in his head.

 _Damn you, Sherlock bloody Holmes_ , John thought. _Why do you have to be so impossible?_

 

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was pacing up and down the living room, circling the armchairs by the fireplace and back to the sofa, stepping on and over the coffee table, then around it. When he accidentally stepped into the remainders of his cold Chinese and the shards of the plates, he grudgingly decided to clean it up.

Returning to the living room and all but falling back onto the sofa, he turned to face the backrest, drew his knees up to his chest and encircled them with his arms.

 _Having a sulk again, Sherlock?_ John’s voice rang in his head, reverberating from the inner walls of his skull. Sherlock found himself caught between a pout and a smile.

'You’re not my experiment, John. Not now, not anymore. Gone - Over - Now I want you to be part of me in every sense of the word,' he whispered into the empty darkness, loosening his grip around his knees and turning to lay on his back. He stared at the ceiling, his hands folded over his torso, sighing. 'I know you’re attracted to me, John, and somehow I’ve developed the insistent urge to reciprocate. I want to be near you, see every line and edge of you, feel your hair, your warmth, your skin and the strength hiding underneath. I want to hear the drum of your heart increase when I get close to you, and I want to know what it would feel like. John.'

There was no answer, and Sherlock sighed. Of course there was no answer. John had gone up to his room, scared off by Sherlock’s - offer? Demand?

He sighed once more. It sounded loud to his ears in the silence of the empty living room. When his old enemy called restlessness started to invade his body, making it uncomfortable to remain still, he got up and padded across the rug to pick up his violin, plucking the strings to check their tune and adjusting them when necessary. The calloused tips of his fingers stroked rosin along the bow, careful and lovingly. Then, sitting down in his chair and closing his eyes, resting the instrument on his shoulder and lifting the bow to meet the strings, he began to play. A tune he’d played often in his head, a melody he associated with warmth and home and John.

He didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, didn’t sense the presence of his friend, hovering next to him, didn’t feel the gaze locked on him for a moment, before John also closed his eyes and took in all of the tender tune Sherlock was playing. When Sherlock ended and lowered his violin, John sighed and opened his eyes to look at his friend, a smile lighting up his tired face.

'That was beautiful,' he whispered, trying not to disturb the peaceful cloak of stillness that surrounded them.

Sherlock looked up at John and blinked in confusion, wondering how he had managed to sneak up to him without being noticed. Then, he turned his gaze down and clenched his jaw.

'It’s you,' he muttered, his voice raw.

'What do you mean?' John asked, tipping his head to the left. His bare toes curled against the cool wooden floor boards and he shivered slightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and rubbing over them to coax some wamth into them.

'The melody,' Sherlock explained evenly, 'it’s you, John, your song. I wrote it for you a while ago, not knowing what it had to offer, what it wanted to tell me.' He inhaled a slightly shaky breath. 'I know what it means now,' he continued, finally lifting his gaze, challenging John with his intense look.

John swallowed visibly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. 'Tell me, then,' he answered, voice still low but far from a whisper. 'What does it mean?'

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath and rolled his eyes. 'Sentiment,' he replied shortly.

John nodded his understanding and absentmindedly chewed his bottom lip. After several long moments that stretched into an eternity, he spoke again. 'What kind of sentiment does it speak of, Sherlock?' he enquired, a hint of something pleasant, something Sherlock couldn’t quite decipher, lingering below his words.

Sherlock snorted. 'It’s called affection, John,' he said, mimicking the statement that had started it all. This stupid, useless experiment that all but drove John away instead of pulling him in.

John just stood and stared for one long moment. His mind reeled with thoughts, memories, trying to decrypt Sherlock’s statement.

'Not an experiment, then?' he eventually asked, his voice low, cautiousness embedded into it, also showing in his expression and posture.

Sherlock just shook his head no. When John’s gaze still reflected wariness, he felt he needed to clarify.

'Not anymore, no. I’ll admit that it was, before I understood that even I am not superior to sentiment, that even I cannot block it out of my life forever. You won’t let me, John. I don’t know how you did it, but you ...' he cut himself off, his words reduced to a stutter, and hung his head.

John, sensing Sherlock’s uncomfortableness, put a hand on his shoulder, trying to encourage him. He squeezed gently, trying to make him answer.

'I, what, Sherlock? I need to know.' _Please, I need to hear it_ , he thought, but left it unspoken.

The silence stretched into seconds, moments and longer, and John felt his heart sink. Then, Sherlock finally opened his mouth.

'You taught me something,' Sherlock softly said, staring at his fingers which were curled around the hem of his shirt. He took a deep breath, but paused.

John waited, his hand still resting on his friend’s shoulder, thumb drawing absentminded circles on the purple cotton.

'You taught me what it feels like to be loved, what it is like to reciprocate the sentiment. But clearly I - was wrong. I misinterpreted.' John frowned. But before he could ask what Sherlock meant, he continued. 'You made it more than clear to me that you want nothing to do with the idea of...'

'Sherlock,' John interrupted, finally understanding what is friend was aiming for. He withdrew the hand resting on Sherlock’s shoulder and used it to force his face up by putting a finger under his chin. He shook his head. 'Misinterpreted indeed, but the wrong thing.'

Sherlock blinked up at him, confusion flickering over his features. As bold and brazen as he had been when it had been him testing and studying John, as shy and out of his depth was he now. He didn’t dare freeing himself from John’s oh so gentle touch, although the finger under his chin burned like fire. Instead, he cast down his eyes again.

John noticed the uncharacteristic shyness that seemed to have taken hold of Sherlock and his heart skipped a beat. _Misunderstood indeed - both of us - all of it - everything_.

John took a step towards Sherlock then, getting down on his knees, closing the gap, purposefully invading his personal space. He came so close that he could smell him, feel his body heat, sense his nervousness. A nervousness that emboldened John, for once giving him the feeling to be one up on Sherlock. John shook his head almost imperceptibly, he didn’t want to think along those lines, didn’t want to let competitiveness or whatever it was creep between them before other, more important things had been settled.

Slowly John moved his finger over Sherlock’s chin and trailed it along his defined jawline, causing him to slightly open his mouth and his eyes to flutter half-closed. John gulped when he saw this reaction to the merest of touches, this tiny loss of control. His finger moved on, along the long and slender neck, the calloused fingertip momentarily rejoicing in the softness of the pale and perfect skin, before his hand gently slid down Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock shivered at the contact and locked eyes with him. When their fingers touched John halted, as if asking for permission to move on. He couldn’t hold back, though. He would go on now, there was no way back, _this was it_.

Sherlock looked down on their hands, John’s smaller one resting on his own, and this touch was everything, was all he had kept back, was all he wanted.

'John,' he whispered, his voice raw and dark, his fingers twitching against the warm ones of his friend, 'John, touch me.'

John smiled and without thinking his fingers intertwined with Sherlock’s and his other hand sneaked up to his neck, lightly resting there before exerting just a tiny bit of pressure. Sherlock willingly followed John’s lead and leaned forward to meet John’s mouth. Their lips touched in a kiss, clumsy and shy at first. It was chaste and tender, and a mere prelude and a promise of what was to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Please tell me/us what you think?  
> Thank you so much  
> JJ


	3. Chapter 3

It was a small kiss, but it was powerful enough to evoke the most wonderful sound from Sherlock. John smiled against his lips when he heard the purr escaping that pale, long throat. John's fingers in the back of Sherlock's neck kept drawing tingly circles, making the tiny hair there stand on end, goose flesh spreading all over Sherlock's arms and back. They parted and locked gazes, Sherlock still purring, John chuckling.

'You really are like a cat in so many ways,' John whispered and pressed his lips to Sherlock's for another brief kiss. Sherlock followed when John pulled back, trying to catch his lips again, but John pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes, sighing contently.

'John?' Sherlock enquired. His voice was rough and he cleared his throat. John broke contact and opened his eyes. He couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's next words. 'May I ...' a sharp intake of breath, indicating the awe and the amazement coursing through him. 'I'd really like to... keep kissing.'

John, ever so slighly, nodded and leaned forward to touch his mouth to Sherlock's once again, but this time he wouldn't keep up the simple, chaste movement of lips against lips. As he felt Sherlock responding, he opened his mouth to run his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip, causing him to part his lips to let a surprised gasp escape. John used this moment to his advantage and sucked the lush flesh into his mouth, gently biting down and running his tongue along the inside.

They both moaned when the tips of their tongues gently brushed against each other, and suddenly, Sherlock put both hands on John's neck, clawing at the skin, pulling him impossibly closer and closer still as their tongues started to dance around each other, stroking, teasing. The tiny noises escaping the back of that lean, white throat were taunting John, baiting him.

He moaned as Sherlock's lips closed around his tongue, sucking on it, teeth timidly grazing across the willing flesh. With a gasp, John pulled back, once again locking gazes with Sherlock, whose eyes were changed, very different, dark with lust, pupils blown so wide that almost nothing of the green-grey irises was visible anymore. Sherlock clicked his tongue impatiently and tried to pull John back to him to continue kissing, but John resisted.

'Sherlock,' he said, pushing him back into the seat with both his hands, and sitting back on his heels. The sudden loss of contact seemed to cool the air between them and John immediately regretted it. Nonetheless, he cleared his throat to steady his voice, and said, 'Sherlock, wait.'

Sherlock pouted, childlike, but did what he was told - he waited - dropping his hands to John's shoulders.

'You're having second thoughts,' he exclaimed evenly, certain of the correctness of his deduction.

But John shook his head. 'I don't, Sherlock, believe me. I've never wanted anything or anyone like I want you. I have for a long time now,' he said, his voice steady.

Sherlock gulped. 'But?' he asked, his teeth lightly digging into his bottom lip.

A smile spread across John' face. 'But we should probably talk about this before we let it go any farther,' he explained, and leaned forward again to stroke the pad of his thumb along Sherlock's delicate cheekbone. 'There is a point of no return, you know.'

 _What makes you think I would ever want to undo this? I want this, all of this. I want you, John_ \- Sherlock thought, but left it unsaid. Those words, there to be used if he ever felt brave enough. But not now, not yet. Instead, he sighed, then nodded curtly. 'Fine, say what needs saying.'

John couldn't help but give a short laugh at this remark. 'Well, first off, where are we going to take this? You seem pretty content kissing, but if we keep going on like that I'll have you right on this chair.'

A defined brow rose towards the ceiling. 'And?' came the impatient reply.

John chuckled again and shook his head. 'And I have no bloody clue if you'd want it, or if you'd just let me do it because you think it would make me happy and keep me interested. I don't want to push you out of your comfort zone. Plus, this,' he gestured between the two of them with an outstretched finger, 'is unexplored territory for me and I...'

A finger on his lips cut him off. 'Talk to much? Yes, indeed,' Sherlock said with a smirk. Then, his face changing from smug to serious in a split second, he added, 'I never did this, or anything remotely like it with anyone before, John. I haven't the faintest idea how it's going to work.' He took a shaky breath before he continued, 'But I do know that I want you, every last bit of you, and I want to offer you everything I have to give. I want you to have me. Mark me, make me yours. I need you to.'

John was rendered speechless. His breath taken away by Sherlock's frankness, he was almost gaping. One, two, three seconds before he took Sherlock's face in both his hands and kissed him, offering all his love and devotion to him with this one, simple touch, stroking his thumbs along those incredibly high cheekbones.

'I love you,' John whispered when they parted again, and he said it because he had to, said it because it would crush his chest if it remained hidden there for much longer. 'God knows I love you, Sherlock, with everything I have, so much it hurts.'

It was Sherlock's turn to stare, opening and closing his mouth with not a single syllable falling from his lips. He licked them and swallowed around the lump in his throat, once, twice and a third time, blinked and finally found his words again.

'John,' he whispered, but nothing else would come to mind. 'John,' he said again, his voice shaking with too many feelings crushing down on him, making his heart burn pleasantly and leaving him in the acute need for closeness. The words, the damnable words - there were there, but he could not say them. He did the only thing his numbed brain could think of and pulled John back down into a mind-consuming kiss.

 

oOo

 

Somehow, they had made it into Sherlock's bedroom, bumping into furniture, walls and door frames, stripping off shirts and socks and trousers along their way. Sherlock's calves met the edge of his bed, but John kept pushing, causing the taller man to fall backwards rather gracelessly. He let out a huff of air when he hit the mattress, and propped himself up on his elbows.

John looked down at him, his eyes roaming the beauty that was Sherlock. His gaze followed down the length of an alabaster neck, up and down an exposed, creamy-white, slightly flushed chest, catching for mere moments on hardened, pink nipples. He bit his bottom lip and inhaled sharply. This exposed beauty right in front of his eyes? Yeah, that was Sherlock, just waiting for him to leave his mark on that perfect, white skin. A strong feeling of something very raw, very basic surged through his veins, curling at his fingertips and toes, tickling at the base of his spine. _Sherlock… mine._

Sherlock watched John watching him and felt blood creep up his already flushed cheeks. That feral look John gave him? That look of utter longing with a tint of surprise added to it? It made him feel not only desired, if made his heart swell and skip a beat, just to pound even stronger against his ribcage right afterwards. He, too, bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply before looking back at John with glazed, half-lidded eyes, holding up his hand in invitation.

John didn't need to be asked twice, in fact, he didn't need to be asked at all. So he took the offered hand, intertwined their fingers and kneeled on the edge of the bed, crawling closer to Sherlock before straddling his hips. The friction of John's thighs and backside rubbing against his erection had Sherlock gasp in surprise, but he instinctively lifted his pelvis to press up and create more contact still.

John smiled at him and let his free left hand stroke up and down Sherlock's torso, fingers ghosting over hotly flushed skin, his pointer circling one of those delicate rosy nipples, only to lightly pinch it and elicit the most obscene moan from Sherlock. The sound of it alone made John harder.

'So beautiful,' he whispered in Sherlock's ear as he leaned down. He felt Sherlock shiver as his breath ghosted over a delicate earlobe that promptly got sucked into John's mouth. Another dark growl escaped from deep down Sherlock's chest, a rumbling so feral, John was sure it had to be the most wonderful sound in the world.

Sherlock freed his hand to put them on John's back, touching, feeling, caressing. He followed the line of strong shoulder blades with his fingertips, a ghostly, almost not noticeable touch that resulted in goose flesh spreading across John's back. He could feel him smile against his neck. Then, a tongue, warm and wet, met the skin just below the junction of Sherlock's jaw and made him dig his fingers into warm skin.

A pair of lips replaced the wetness of John's tongue, kissing first, then sucking lightly. Teeth scraped over hot skin, making Sherlock moan and turn his head to the other side to grant his lover a better access. John inwardly rejoiced at the sounds freeing themselves, his lips wandering farther down, tongue darting out to taste the slightly salty dampness of skin.

He wanted nothing more than to say how much he loved Sherlock, how much he wanted him, but he settled for lightly biting his collarbone instead, eliciting yet another helpless moan and fingernails digging deeper into his skin in response. His hands continued roaming over Sherlock's chest, deliberately avoiding his nipples, just caressing with almost no pressure applied - a ghostly touch, designed to have him aching for more.

Gasping John sat back up, just looking down at Sherlock for a moment. Their eyes met, Sherlock's half-lidded gaze glossed over, pleading him. 'Please,' they seemed to whisper, and it was then that John threw all consideration and caution over board.

He smashed his lips to Sherlock's, forcing his mouth open with his tongue, invading, not taking the time to taste but plundering, taking, sucking lips and tongue and making Sherlock moan darkly into his mouth. He lifted himself off his lover's lap, fingers shakily hooking into the waistband of Sherlock's black silk pants, pulling them down hastily when Sherlock lifted his hips in response, freeing the hot, throbbing erection.

He looked down at it from the corner of his eye, his tongue still roaming Sherlock's mouth, moaning into the kiss. With a last suck on a hot tongue he sat back up, again just looking for a moment before taking him into his hand, appreciating the silky feel of it, the heaviness, the warmth.

Sherlock bit his swollen bottom lip at the touch, unintentionally muffling the moan that was freeing itself from his throat, and clenched his eyes shut, lifting his hips again, pressing up into John's warm hand. His whole body ached for friction, burned with desire. All his actions pleaded for more contact, more heat, more everything. 'Please,' he whisper-moaned through gritted teeth, 'John, please.'

John groaned in response, placing a last kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, then moved down, down, lips caressing the flushed skin of an otherwise creamy-white chest, closing around a pink nipple, sucking at it for mere seconds. All the while his hand continued the delicious motion, his fingers applying soft pressure to the shaft, then working slowly up and down, resulting in more frequent gasps and moans from Sherlock's throat.

'M-m-more,' Sherlock stuttered and it was the last coherent thing he was able to say as he felt hot lips closing around him.

Sherlock felt the warmth consuming him, warmth in his chest, warmth in his cheeks and his limbs, spreading into the farthest corner of his system, prickling at the tips of his fingers, making him curl his toes. He weaved his fingers into John's short, sand-coloured hair, not strong enough to push him farther down, but indication he wanted to keep him there, doing just that, possibly forever. This felt… good. And so right. _Oh. God. Yes._

oOo

 

It was growing brighter in the room as the day was boldly taking over from the black of the night. The light falling in through the windows was tender, soft, new. Sherlock blinked the tiredness from his eyes, a tiredness which was swaddled in ease, in comfort, in contentment and satisfaction.

He propped himself up on his elbow as he was wide awake now and he needed to see, no to observe the man next to him. The man who suddenly was everything to him, the man who had made him give and who had given in return.

Sherlock squinted and leaned a bit closer the better to see the soft blond hair, almost like down, which was covering the small of the back. A smattering of freckles on his shoulder blades, surely a remnant of prolonged exposure to the sun. A mole on the base of the nape, almost in the centre, maybe half an inch to the right. Another, much smaller mole was right next to it, the two of them making an almost perfect pair.

Sherlock leaned down to kiss the marks on John's skin, a feather light touch only, far too weak to wake his sleeping lover. He hovered over the soft skin, widening his nostrils to inhale the scent clinging to John. A mixture of sleep, sex and John's own scent - spicy and sweet.

Sherlock fought the impulse to rest his head on John's back, fought the wish to wholly envelop him with his warmth, with his love. Instead he lay down next to him, as close as possible without disturbing him, he had no wish to wake him, to rob him of his sleep. Not now, not yet, no need to hurry, no need to rush - not anymore.

Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair and closed his eyes. A sense of homecoming, of peace and calm settled over him, making his limbs heavy, weighing him down pleasantly. Now was the moment he had been waiting for, unconsciously all his life, and consciously those last hours - now was the time to say it.

'I love you.'

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, I told there would be fluff :) ... If you'd like a more explicit variation of this chapter, please check out AnnieAmazing's version - Apart from that her take on this fic is very much worth checking out anyway!   
> Thank you all so much for your feedback, it's lovely to get such a response.   
> See you ...  
> JJ


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